


I Live In A City Sorrow Built

by allisonmartined



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonmartined/pseuds/allisonmartined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future!Canon.  Merlin and Morgana have a game of push and pull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Live In A City Sorrow Built

He is etched in her bones, his name an invisible marking on her skin.

 

She strips herself of the clothes he’s touched ( a hand gripped around her waist, a leg pressed against hers).  She throws them in the river, hoping that she can drown his touch in the white and blue ripples.

 

Morgana (his voice curves over her name and she resents him for it. Resents him for all of it.)

 

It has been years (she’s lost count of the days) and they’re still playing this game.

 

* * *

 

There’s a knife to his throat, a challenge in his eyes.  Her leg is pushed up violently between his legs and she lets the knife slide just a bit against his skin.  His eyes are laughing (gold dancing behind the blue) and she pushes her thumb against the blade, a soft drop of blood streaking his neck.

 

His hips grind against her leg and she drops the knife to the floor.  He grins and pulls on her hair, laughter spilling from his lips (he seems evil here, in these darkest parts).

 

He's got her shoved against the wall now, his hands expertly moving beneath her skirt. 

 

There's a swish of fabric and then she's gasping into his shoulder.  Her teeth bite out each thrust (tiny bruises on his shoulder to serve as a reminder of their game).

 

When it's over, when she feels weak and spent (the stars just fading from behind her eyes) against his skin, he kisses her.  It's gentle and she can feel the Merlin of before in this touch (it's what they allow themselves).

 

Morgana, Morgana, Morgana.  He whispers her name into her neck (and she thinks she can feel the warmth of tears there too).

 

The knife lays on the makeshift table in her home, the blood of a great sorcerer coloring the blade.

 

(She wonders when this became pretend, when she stopped killing for the sake to kill, when she started caring.  She thinks it started with this.)

 

The fight for the throne of Camelot seems like a distant dream (she remembers it in blurs and colors, anger etched in all of it). 

 

Now, her thoughts lie with the trees.  Magic dwells in the roots, and in the birds, and in the air itself.  There are spirits and spells in the forest and she lives among them, twisting her magic with it in a knot that cannot be unraveled.

 

She hears of the stories of Merlin and his King Arthur and their great triumphs.  The druids praise Emrys (and whisper Le Fay).  Morgana can still hear those immortal words ringing in her ears.  Destiny and doom.

 

Destiny.  She thinks about that now and then. 

 

She understands it now (partly).   She understands the balance they keep. 

 

Arthur dies and she feels it in her bones.  It's like a part of her is being removed, chipped off, and she can't shake this feeling of inescapable loss.

 

Merlin comes to her then, shaky hands and tired eyes.  His words are broken and she lets him rest against her chest (his heart beating against hers).

 

This is what Destiny is, (she thinks) the beating of two hearts.

 

There are spells between them (whispered words in darkness).  She can feel the magic hum through her veins and she wonders if he can feel it too.

 

There are days when she catches herself thinking of days before.  Days when she lived in castle walls and a servant boy blushed at the sight of her.  It feels like so long ago (and it was).  She can count the years in the stars with his palm against hers.

 

 

He is starting to resemble that boy again, the wear of war fading around the edges of him.  And she can feel that girl in herself too as she pokes fun at his hair, laughing at his frown.  They feel younger again, like youth is spreading through their skin (and it is).

 

She wears a smile more often now, the sun shining on her face.  She can feel him smiling, too, from behind her.  He catches her hip in his hand and she laughs.  They rest their bodies against one another, the weight of history emptying from their chests. 

 

He whispers words indiscernable into her skin and she draws patterns on his wrists.

 

 

 

 


End file.
